


All Wash Out (In The Rain)

by rufeepeach



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Rumbelle Summer Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-23 04:20:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11982006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufeepeach/pseuds/rufeepeach
Summary: While travelling on their second honeymoon, Belle and Rumpelstiltskin get caught in a downpour on a muddy road in the Sri Lankan jungle. Belle decides to go for a walk in the rain; Rumple follows.





	All Wash Out (In The Rain)

**Author's Note:**

> And thus (belatedly) ends the official run of the Rumbelle Summer Vacation fic-a-thon! 
> 
> Title unashamedly stolen from the song of the same name by Edwin Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes, which inspired this piece. 
> 
> Also pieces of this are based on personal experience, at least in terms of location, the van, and the rain. Except where Belle and Rumple have life-affirming sex in the rain, I was fifteen and listening to Snow Patrol on my 2008 iPod Nano. Yep.

Belle didn’t think she’d ever heard rain like that.

It pounded, poured, all but sizzled on the tin roof. Perhaps it was just how much closer she was to this rain than she’d ever been before, without heavy stone castle walls or reassuring brick and mortar to keep the elements at bay. The rainstorm caught them on the road between Sigiriya and Kandi, and made the road ahead all but impossible. Their guide, an earnest young man named Shan, claimed to know a man in the next village, and had hopped out of the campervan to tramp through the rain and find help and supplies. He hadn’t expected to be back for an hour or so. He’d left them with the food they’d bought from the last village, a flashlight, and a huge bottle of water.

That was twenty minutes ago: the rain hadn’t abated in the meantime.

Rumple sighed, and Belle felt him shift next to her. She rolled her eyes.

“If you’re really that uncomfortable, go ahead and use it.”

She turned to look at him. Rumple blinked back, the picture of innocence.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

It was Belle’s turn to sigh. “I mean the shard of trapped magic you keep in your bag,” she said. “Or should that be shards, multiple. You could have us at the next hotel and out of the rain in moments.”

Rumple shifted guiltily. “You know about those?”

She pressed a hand to his shoulder, comfortingly. “I’m not angry,” she said. “It came in very handy in Paris, when suddenly the clouds parted and the sky was clear and starry. And in Marrakesh, where somehow I didn’t get food poisoning despite that being terrible shrimp.”

“Mm-hmm,” he murmured. She pressed a kiss where her hand had been.

“I’m really not angry,” she assured him. “I knew you wouldn’t be comfortable coming away without some form of magic as a ballast. I was so glad when I found the bag in your suitcase. I’d have been fretting for weeks otherwise about how Gideon was getting on, back with Granny.”

“Better there than in the tropics, where any mosquito could be infected.” His lip curled at the corner in distaste, but Belle snorted, not buying it for a moment. He’d been having the time of his life, mosquitos notwithstanding. The view from atop Sigiriya had rendered even her husband, the master of words, silent.

“Whale gave you all your shots,” Belle chided, gently. “And Shan was right about the mosquito netting on the windows: we haven’t had a single bite in here.”

Rumple glanced about warily. “They’re everywhere,” he muttered. He looked across at her. She’d gotten herself comfortable, curled on her side on the plush leather chair, her hand behind her head. There was quite the view here, too, her handsome husband in a loose white shirt and jeans, his hair curling at the ends where it was finally growing back, just a little sweat on his brow giving his skin a healthy glow. He looked happy, she thought, for all his scowling.

“You’ve made yourself at home,” he said, running his eyes from the top of her head to her sandal-clad toes. She’d bought a new skirt from a local store a few days ago, bright red dyed linen with an orange, floral pattern, and the way it wrapped around her hips meant there was a long gap splitting open along her leg. The humidity from the rain, a summer storm in the tropics, made her white blouse stick to her stomach and chest. She knew her hair was a mess, shoved up in a bun to keep it off her neck. He didn’t seem to notice, or if he did he didn’t care.

“Making the best of it,” she said, purposely stretching her arms high and arching her hips, wriggling in the chair, watching his eyes roam over her unabashedly. She almost missed the days when his glances had been furtive, when he had been almost shy for all his audacity, at a loss whenever she was around. Now, after almost a year of happy marriage and lifetimes getting to know the best and worst of one another, he was unafraid to admire her. He no longer waited for the sharp word, the rejection, the scorn or the discomfort he’d been braced for before.

For a moment his eyes were on hers, and the words fell out of Belle’s head. Yes there was desire in his eyes, but there was so much more than that. She could almost feel his love for her, helpless and naked and adoring on his face. She knew she was looking back with exactly the same wide eyes, the same devoted smile.

In truth, she didn’t want him to use magic to send them on their way. They were in no danger, and the rain sounded so good on the roof, and the smell of it, of ozone and rain and rich, damp vegetation, the smell of life and growing things, seeped in through the windows. The cloths hanging to keep bugs from the passengers, the darkening sky and the heavy, overhanging trees made it feel as if the rain and the forest hid them, as if they were the only two people left alive on earth. If Gideon were here, Belle thought, she would never want to go outside again. But then if Gideon were here, Rumple wouldn’t be looking at her like he wanted to rip that beautiful new skirt off with his teeth.

“I’ve no idea how you do that,” he murmured. His lips were quirking, as if he were unable to keep back his smile. She frowned. “How you make the best of things,” he explained. “How everything you touch turns to sunshine.”

She blushed. “I love you.” It was the best response she could manage when those warm dark eyes of his were making her dizzy, and then she was dragging him down for a deep kiss, her hands in that soft, damp, growing hair, still so warm and thick, perfect for burying her fingers in.

She pulled him over her, so she was on her back on the seat, and she felt his arms come around her. His mouth tasted like the sweet fruit Shan had bought them before the rain started, like lychees but stronger. Belle tried to find every drop of juice on his lips and tongue, and heard him groan in the back of his throat.

She reached down to the lever next to her, and slid the leather seat back to full recliner mode. He yelped as they fell back, and she laughed. He shook his head, and kissed her again to silence her giggles. Her hands left his hair, and found their way to his collar and along his shoulders. His shirt was clinging, the sweat and the damp making things sticky. “We need to shower,” she murmured, when his lips slipped from hers.

“Go outside,” he rumbled against her throat. “Plenty of water out there.”

Belle laughed, but the idea was suddenly very appealing. The rain wouldn’t be cold, but it would feel so good to be wet with something other than sweat. She imagined how wonderful his kisses would taste wet from the summer rain. Their bags were just behind them, piled high on the backseat. They’d be dry and dressed before Shan returned.

She kissed the tip of Rumple’s nose, and grinned. “Come on then!” she whispered, and grabbed his hand, surging upright and hauling him with her. She hauled the van door open, and threw herself out into the downpour.

“Belle!” he half-protested, but Belle had already let go, intoxicated by the first glance of rain against her shoulders, her face, the top of her head. It was cooling, soothing, and invigorating all at once. It felt like wine, like sex, like the wilds and riding her horse as fast as it would carry her. It was like nothing she’d ever felt before.

“Come on, Rumple!” she cried, turning around to face him, throwing her head back and spreading her arms wide. Her hair was already plastered to her face and neck, but she didn’t care. “The water’s fine!”

He was lingering in the van, his anxious eyes darting about at the surrounding forest, as if a panther might come from the woods and attack at any moment. She wanted to lap the rainwater from his warm, soft skin. She wanted him to feel as good as she did.

Belle sighed, and rolled back her shoulders. “It feels so good!” she cried, having to shout to be heard over the pounding rain. She rocked her head back on her shoulders and let the rain cascade over her face, already soaked to the skin. The water was warm, almost sweet, and even the mud soaking into her sandals felt luxuriant.

Her hands came to her shirt, as if she didn’t know her husband was watching, and she slowly undid the buttons, pulling the drenched fabric aside to expose her chest and stomach to the rain. Her thin cotton bra was stuck to her skin, barely concealing anything, and she gasped when she felt the rain on her breasts through the cloth. She slipped her soaked shirt from her shoulders, and threw it aside into the mud. Only then did she look Rumple in the eye, and cocked an eyebrow in open challenge.

“That’ll be ruined!” he called. She shook her head.

“I don’t care!” She laughed: it felt so freeing to be able to say that, and mean it. She’d been so full of caring for so long – for her family, for her people, for Rumple, for the town in the wake of Rumple’s destruction, for Gideon. It felt like all she’d done for years was care. Now, she knew Gideon was safe and sound back in Storybrooke, and Rumple was happy and whole and making good decisions, acting out of love rather than fear. No one would die if she just let go, and it felt so good to do just that.

Belle closed her eyes, and let the rain pour. She heard herself start to laugh, and with every breath she felt herself floating, felt the world melt away until it was just her, her husband, and the rain.

She blinked her eyes open, and looked across at Rumple. He was watching her as if he couldn’t believe she was real. His lips were slightly parted, still swollen from her kisses, his eyes so wide and lost, full of hope and adoration. He was beautiful. Her laughter abated, and for a moment she just watched him, waiting.

“Well, aren’t you coming?” she asked, at last.

Slowly, so slowly, he stepped out of the van, and closed the door behind him. He was wet through instantly, the rain plastering his hair to his face, his shirt instantly see-through and stuck to his chest. Belle laughed again at his soft dismay, and covered her mouth with her hand. He came to join her, shaking his head as if they were both fools, and she pirouetted into his arms, giggling and gasping, breathless. If this was foolishness, she never wanted to be sensible again.

“You’ve ruined your skirt,” he murmured, his fingers plucking at the soaked red fabric. She looked down.

“So I have,” she said. “Whatever am I to do?”

She reached down to the button, and flicked it open. She unwrapped the fabric from around her hips, until it was a soaking red ball in her hands and her legs were free, exposed to the rain. She was about to throw it away to join her shirt, but Rumple caught her wrist gently in his hand, and shook his head.

“The shirt was nothing special, but I like this skirt,” he said. She bit her lip, and nodded.

“Then let’s keep it safe.” She took the skirt back from him, and walked purposely over to the van, making sure to swing her hips as she went. Her white cotton knickers were stuck to her skin from the rain, and she knew he could see everything. She could all but feel his eyes watching her backside, as she opened the van door and put the skirt inside, before closing it back up to keep the inside dry.

He looked dazed again as she sauntered back to him, as if his eyes didn’t know where to look first. They darted from her eyes to her breasts to her hips and back again, and Belle let him look his fill.

“What about these jeans?” she asked, when she reached him. Her fingers slipped into the waistband. “They can’t be comfortable anymore.”

“I believe someone made me buy three different pairs,” he replied.

“Mm, sounds like a woman of taste,” she teased. “Someone who knew how good your arse looks in denim.”

She could almost see the hint of a blush on his cheeks at that. He loved it when she took the lead, when she was brazen and chased him. He loved to be caught even better.

“I’m sure she would be horrified to see them ruined,” he replied. Belle bit her lip, and ran her eyes slowly over him, taking in every soaked inch.

“I don’t think she cares,” she said, and she didn’t know who moved first, but suddenly she was back in his arms and they were kissing again, deep and passionate, desperate. He devoured her, as if he couldn’t get enough of her, and she had been right: the fruit had been lovely, but the rain made his kisses taste divine.

She melted against him, kissing him back with equal passion. His hands were hot at her waist, a delicious counterpoint to the cool rain. She worked at the buttons of his shirt; she thanked God he was wearing her least favourite, so she didn’t care if it wasn’t salvageable. He didn’t even fight her: he let her peel the cold, wet linen from his skin, and she threw it aside into the mud to join hers.

The moment his bare chest met hers, Belle’s mind stopped functioning. It was too much sensation: his body against hers, his heartbeat thundering in time with hers, the friction of her wet bra against her breasts as he held her against him, the sound and smell and feel of the rain on her skin and the jungle around them. It was all too much, and not enough, and Belle felt like she was overflowing, like she would burst. She needed him to anchor her. She needed him inside her and surrounding her, to be so close that she’d never have to worry about losing him again.

Her hands scrabbled at his belt, working desperately to get his jeans down his hips. It was a struggle, the wet denim fought her at every turn, but it became easier as he walked her backward, and by the time her bare back hit the side of the van she had his hot, hard cock in her hand. He was still kissing her, biting at her lips, plundering her mouth as his hands roamed all over her, seemingly unable to decide where to settle. It was driving her wild.

He grunted against her throat as she stroked him, kissing and nipping at her neck. “Oh, Belle,” he groaned. “How I love you.”

“Please, Rumple,” she gasped, “I need you.”

He nodded, and she felt one hand slip down from her waist to dip into her underwear. He groaned when he slipped two fingers into her folds and found her hot and ready for him.

“You’re so wet, sweetheart,” he gasped, wrecked, as if she had undone him with just her hand on his cock, just her kisses and her body against his.

“I need you,” she said again, reduced to small words, her whole body craving his. “I love you.” He was pressed against her, entwined with her, even the rain unable to come between their bodies, and yet it still wasn’t enough.

He glanced down, and before Belle knew what was happening, he had taken her underwear between his hands and pulled, hard. The wet fabric gave like tissue paper, and Belle gasped when she heard the tear, and felt her knickers fall away. “Well, they’re ruined now,” she giggled, breathlessly. He nodded. His eyes were so dark and hot they burned into hers, branding her soul as if his name weren’t written there already. He was hers, and she was his, and at last, at long last, there was nothing more to say.

His mouth met hers, and she hopped up, wrapping her legs around his narrow hips as she lined them up. He held her hips in one hand, bracing her against the side of the van, and entered her in one long, smooth stroke.

From there, everything was texture, friction, sensation: the cold rain and his hot skin; the feel of him thrusting inside her, so deep and hard and wonderful; the scent of the jungle and the hot rain on the earth, life bursting and soaring all around them. Belle couldn’t think, she was feeling too much, all at once, connected and deep, as if she were outside of herself.

The pleasure broke in shuddering waves, and Belle heard herself cry out, her head thrown back, Rumple’s mouth on her collarbones, her throat, worshipping every inch of skin he could find. She clenched hard around him, riding out her climax, her whole body soaring, aching, burning up. She loved him so much she couldn’t breathe. She had never felt more alive.

Belle felt the moment Rumple let go, and she held him through it, still trembling in aftershock as she clung to him. He shuddered against her, releasing inside, and kissed her cheek, her face, and finally her mouth as he came down from his high.

For a moment, they just stood there like that, with Rumple buried deep inside her, the rain still pouring, clinging to one another as if they’d never have to part again.

Finally, Rumple softened inside her, and he stepped back, tucking himself back inside his soaked boxers. She laughed as she shakily returned to her feet, her knees wobbly, lassitude sinking in in the afterglow. He looked bedraggled, like a cat caught in a storm, his wet hair sticking in odd angles from her hands raking through it. She doubted she looked much better.

“Come on,” she murmured, cupping his face. He kissed the heel of her hand, such soft devotion in his eyes her knees nearly gave out altogether. “Lets get inside.”

He nodded, and they fumbled their way back into the van, tumbling inside and slamming the door behind them. They rummaged through their nearest suitcase until they found two beach towels and some fresh clothing. Belle did her best not to look at Rumple as she dried off and changed – hard enough in a small space with little room to manoeuvre. She knew if she looked at him, if she caught him watching her, then they’d never get dressed.

Finally, Rumple had found a fresh pair of pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt, and arranged himself back on his reclined chair, both seats now fully horizontal. He patted the space beside him, and Belle went to join him, cushioning her head on his outstretched arm and cuddling close against him. He still smelled like the rain, his damp hair curling against his collar, and for a moment he felt so relaxed against her she wondered if he was asleep.

“I was joking, when I suggested the rain as a shower,” he said. She snorted a laugh through her nose.

“You know I’m highly suggestible,” she teased. It was his turn to snort.

“Hardly. You’re the most wilful, stubborn person I’ve ever met.”

He sounded so fond, so kind, she couldn’t even pretend to be insulted. “You love it,” she said. Her eyes met his, and once again she was faced with one of those adoring, devoted, knee-weakening gazes.

“Aye, I do,” he murmured, and leaned down to kiss her again, loose-lipped and soft, the urgency from before abandoned outside with the rain.

She nestled back against him, her head now pillowed on his chest, and she felt him playing idly with the soaked ends of her hair. His heart beat beneath her ear, a steady thump. She remembered how close he had been to losing it, once, in a deep well of darkness and despair. Now it beat firm, and strong. It beat for her.

“Are you happy, Rumple?” she asked. In the dark, dry, warm haven they’d created, the rain muffling any other sound from outside, it felt as if she could say anything. It was as if they were detached from time and space, just the two of them in their own private world.

“I am,” he sighed. She looked up at him, and he pressed a kiss to her forehead. He didn’t have to ask in return: Belle had never been happier.


End file.
